But Ruth is not joking.
Her red lips curve into a smile so calm it looks practiced. “Don’t look so dramatic,” she says softly. “It won’t kill him right away. It will only make him weaker. Confused. Easier to manage.”
Amara’s lips part, but no words come out.
Ruth steps closer, her perfume filling the space between them. “You came here with nothing,” she whispers. “No family. No money. No protection. I gave you a job in a house most girls like you only see in movies.”
Amara’s hand trembles around the packet.
“And I can take it away,” Ruth continues. “One call from me, and you’ll be back on the street before sunrise.”
You keep your eyes on the fire.
Every muscle above your waist is locked in place. Your hands grip the armrests of your wheelchair so tightly your knuckles ache. You want to turn around. You want to shout. You want to ask Ruth what kind of monster looks at a husband in a wheelchair and decides he is still not helpless enough.
